


Lie-In

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t believe you drank an entire bottle of wine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie-In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/gifts).



> I feel as though when Allison and I hang out, it always results in a hangover for one or the both of us, so this fic happened. 
> 
> Happy birthday dahlin'! To many more hangovers with you! :D
> 
> (And [Erin](http://thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com/) is a goddess for putting up with me, and this.)

The groan that rose from across the pillow was lengthy and low and it caused Sherlock to perk up his head, eyes creaking open. After a moment, he reduced them to slits, gazing across his bed at the source of the offending noise. The light sifting in through the window assaulted his eyes and he groaned in return.

There was another groan and then a cough, followed by a shuffling of legs. John tipped his mouth up and away from where it had been mashed down into the bed, gasping a breath before saying, gruffly, “I can’t believe you drank an entire bottle of wine.”

Sherlock licked his lips, preparing for speech as he did his best to stretch out his limbs without jostling his head much.

“How’s that so unbelievable?” Sherlock managed weakly before smooshing his cheek down into his own pillow, the side of his mouth smearing the fabric. It took him a moment, but he wriggled over to the edge, until the tip of his nose tickled the frayed end of John’s pillowcase. Their eyes would have been mere inches away if John had bothered to open his.

But perhaps John has the right idea, perhaps Sherlock would feel better if he closed his eyes.

“It was three hundred quid!” he exclaimed eventually, wincing even as he said it, turning back so that he could press his face down and away from the light.

Sherlock licked his lips and reached across the short distance to run his fingers down John’s bicep. Because he could. Because he _liked_ to. “Well, one does have to treat oneself sometimes, no?”

“Hrmph, yeah, sure, I… my god, my eyes feel like sandpaper.”

“I cannot claim that mine feel much better,” Sherlock conceded, splaying his warm palm out over the small of John’s back, thumb just brushing the top of his boxers. “And you’re one to talk about money spent, you threw away nearly as much on cigars!”

“You’re supposed to treat someone on their stag night, Sherlock! I expected you to know _at least_ that from when you…” John stopped abruptly, body tensing as the memory settled over the both of them; John’s stag night, nearly two years gone, now. An evening spent much as the evening previous had been, drinking and bar hopping. 

But it was so different now. Now they ended their days in bed together, curled around one another. The potential that had been between them on that stag night - thick and dangerous and so heady - had been consummated six months ago. 

They had fallen into bed together easily after Lestrade’s stag, so full of food and alcohol that they hadn’t had the presence of mind to properly prepare for bed. Even now, Sherlock still wore his button up, though had managed to work the buttons open so his chest was bare. John had gotten down to his boxers, though had committed the mortal sin of leaving his socks on, and when he realized this he began toeing them lazily off of his feet, leaving them beneath the covers to be forgotten. 

Sherlock shimmied even closer, placing his mouth - lips slightly chapped from the dehydration - against John’s warm shoulder. He cut through the lingering tension that refused to drain from John with ease. “You don’t even smoke.”

“Cigars are different.” John murmured lazily, leaning ever so slightly into Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock’s voice was haughty when he replied, as though he’d won the argument then and there. “If you got to smoke that means I get to smoke.”

“You could have had a cigar, I did offer you one.”

“I didn’t _want_ a cigar!”

“Well that was the only thing that was or will ever be on offer, so you lucked out there, didn’t you?”

They were silent for a time, Sherlock brushing his fingertips over the skin on John’s arm and John just lightly dozing as the prior evening’s drinking continued to take it’s toll. “Still can’t believe… three _hundred_ quid!”

Sherlock shrugged, “It was good wine.”

“Must have been.”

“I _did_ offer you some, but you and the lot seemed content with whatever swill passed for beer.” Sherlock lifted his head and scooted over, gently settling his teeth into the meaty rise of John’s shoulder; John chuckled at the sensation. 

Sherlock would never admit to it, but he did enjoy these little lie ins. Days after John (and generally _only_ John) would go out to the pub and have one too many, he’d want to linger in bed, twisting this way and that, burrowing down into the covers, touching Sherlock randomly, scooping his arms around him, lying over his back. John was very tactile while hungover and Sherlock really, really enjoyed being touched by John. 

Touching John wasn’t half bad, either.

John’s head popped up suddenly, just clipping Sherlock’s nose. “Three hund-oh god, oh bollocks, did I leave enough for that tab? What did we leave at dinner? Oh Christ Sherlock, I ordered _steak_ , did we-”

“It was taken care of,” Sherlock placated.

“What do you mean, how much did you leave?”

Confusedly, Sherlock shook his head, hooked an ankle over John’s right calf. “I… paid the tab.”

“What?” John twisted towards Sherlock in a comically slow manner. 

Sherlock’s gaze darted to glance down at John’s sternum and then back to his eyes. “I- well you did say that bit about treating one’s... about _treating one’s friends_ ,” he said the last bit rather quickly. “I thought it would be a gesture.”

“A gesture?” John asked, so quietly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the spectacular fashion that only he could manage, “Yes. A token of, whatever, to celebrate Lestrade’s impending nuptials.” He’d seen enough of John’s kindness to his friends to understand not just what was expected of someone in certain situations, but what might also be considerate and generous.

John’s mouth peeled back to reveal a surprised and delighted grin. “Alright, you.”

Sherlock pressed his mouth into a tight line, set his shoulders and settled a neutral mask over his face. “Is that alright?”

“More than alright, I just… just sometimes forget that you can be rather brilliant at times.”

“That _is_ one of my better qualities,” Sherlock readily agreed, smiling while pursing his mouth. 

John scooted over, shifted his right shoulder down and under until Sherlock was gazing down at him and he was flat on his back. “C’mere.”

“Oh, am I being rewarded?” Sherlock asked, innocently, though doing as told. “For what a good job I did last night? Is this some Pavlovian technique that you’re attempting because I have to say that sex as a reward is…”

But he trailed off as John dipped his hand, running the flat of his palm between Sherlock’s legs, slowly. 

John smiled as Sherlock’s prick twitched and thickened a bit in response. “That is absolutely, one-hundred percent _not_ what I’m trying to do here.” John pressed against the mattress and flipped them, Sherlock’s thigh’s easing around his own as they swapped positions.

Sherlock settled back onto the pillows and John tipped himself over the long body as Sherlock spread his legs wider. “Reverse,” Sherlock sighed, “psychology.”

“No, no, I’d never try something like that on-” and suddenly John’s hand stopped and Sherlock’s eyes flew open and John was staring down at him in startled astonishment. “Wait, is that something you’ve tried on _me_ then? Is that why you suggested that?”

“What, no, John don’t stop,” and Sherlock snagged John’s hand and dragged it back towards his clothed cock. 

John tugged it away, grinning down at Sherlock now, “But have you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flailed his arms back onto the pillow, “Maybe. Once. Or twice. But you liked it. You always came!”

“Well right, one does when one doesn’t know they’re taking part in a psychological experiment!” John chuckled his indignation, but plucked at the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, allowing the elastic to snap back against his abdomen. “Ah, fuck it, can’t say I’m surprised.”

His hand snaked inside Sherlock’s boxer briefs and wrapped around his thickening prick, giving it a quick little squeeze before pulling away and nudging Sherlock’s clothing down his thighs. “You always… you always came very hard,” Sherlock said again, vehemently. 

“Aw,” John conceded, dipping his head to trace his tongue against the slit of Sherlock’s cock. “Don’t I always come hard for you?”

Sherlock felt wrung out and on fire; between the dull pounding in his head and the blood thrumming against his ears he felt just this side of sane. John’s tongue lapped teasingly at him, tracing up the underside before flicking against the head and pulling away.

“With the _stopping_ ,” Sherlock keened and peeked open and eye to witness John stretch across his body on all fours and snatch up the glass of water that was on the nightstand. 

John took three long gulps, smacked his lips and sat back on his heels. “Believe me, this would have been very unpleasant for you, what with the hangover and the, the dry mouth,” John said, passing the back of his hand across his lips. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and then snatched the water from John’s hand and finished it off. 

“Quick fix for that,” Sherlock said with a smack of his own lips as he sat up to remove his shirt. “Fuck me.”

John’s mouth fell open - just a bit - as it always did when Sherlock spoke so simply filthy. Passing a tongue over his lower lip, he considered. “We’re both not feeling… great, why not just-”

“We’ll go slow,” and Sherlock was reaching into the bedside drawer for the lubricant. “I have the most curious need to be as close to you as possible at the moment.” When he turned back to meet John’s eyes, he was blushing, mouth curved only the tiniest bit upward.

John sighed, happy and light and _good_ , and leaned forward to take Sherlock’s face between his hands and kiss him slowly. “About last night,” he murmured as he plied the bottle from Sherlock’s hand. “The whole cat being out of the bag as far as we’re concerned…” John slicked his fingers and urged Sherlock down onto his back, helping him to get his sleep pants all the way off before allowing Sherlock to shuck John of his own, singlehandedly.

“What about it?” Sherlock sighed as his eyes fluttered shut, John’s fingers moving to massage against his hole.

“That was,” and John leaned forward to suck a kiss into Sherlock’s belly. “I didn’t ask you if that was something you were ready for and I went ahead and mucked it all up.” The tip of one finger slid easily in.

Sherlock moaned into it, sliding his eyes open at John’s assessment. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” John swallowed and worked a second finger carefully inside, stroking at Sherlock’s cock with his free hand. “You were all tipsy and adorable-”

“I’m not adorable!”

“You were adorable and I couldn’t help it,” his thumb moved slowly over the head as fingers inside of Sherlock crooked and found his prostate, pressing against the gland a few times before retreating. A third finger followed, Sherlock’s body stretching at the girth, but accepting it after a time and then John was finger fucking him slowly, easily.

“I don’t… John I don’t care.” Sherlock’s hand found John’s thigh and settled there, nails barely scratching. “Do you? Care?”

John considered, even as he stroked and prepared Sherlock. “I care about you. I don’t care about what others think.”

“Then is there a problem?” he said and John was quiet, slipping his hand out and moving to snatch up the lube.

“I… love you, you know,” John said, more to the bottle in his hands than to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s reply was quiet but firm. “I know.”

“Oh, well, okay, good,” John said, shaking his head as he slicked himself up, settled himself between Sherlock’s thighs and eased himself very slowly inside. They paused as John slid in, both of their breath rushing out when he was fully seated. 

John’s mouth fell to Sherlock’s and they kissed, slowly and messily for a long moment, John beginning to piston his hips, slowly. “That feels brilliant,” Sherlock sighed, sliding his hands from the jut of John’s shoulder blades down to the curve of his arse. “Though your breath leaves something to be desired.”

“You’re such a cock,” John angled his face so his breath hit Sherlock full on. 

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, “You love my cock.”

“Not what I meant.” John sucked a bruising kiss into the side of Sherlock’s neck and picked up the tempo, still slow, but with more force, sliding deeper. John grunted, sliding his arms with some difficulty underneath and around Sherlock’s shoulders and tucking his face down into his neck. 

His mouth puffed humid air into the void between Sherlock and the pillow as he felt Sherlock’s hand sneak between their bodies and wrap around himself. 

Sherlock came with a choked little gasp and keened up into John, his mouth open and sloppy on John’s shoulder as John pounded into him. Lengthy pulls of his hips and sweet little sweeps back in caused the aftershocks to ring through Sherlock’s spine.

It was a bright little groan from Sherlock that did him in and he tensed from his back straight on up to the top of his head, bowing in and back as he came. John called out, breathless, an amalgamation of Sherlock’s name and nonsense and fell to brace himself on his elbows, having the presence of mind to lower himself just to Sherlock’s side.

John’s right hand fell back, knuckles brushing against Sherlock’s sweaty, heaving chest. “That wasn’t slow, sorry.”

“No cause for complaint,” Sherlock said, trailing his fingers airily above them.

“Sweet,” John yawned happily. “Good, yeah.”

Sherlock shifted onto his side, chuckled and stretched. “After all of that I _still_ have a headache but now I’m _hungry_.”

“Oh but you don’t eat,” John sighed and smiled.

Sherlock rolled out of bed and picked up John’s pants, wiping up the mess on his stomach. Once through, he shrugged his shirt on and buttoned it up, missing a hole and having to go back to fix it. His trousers were wrinkled beyond hope but he pulled those on too, no pants underneath. “This morning I do, what would you like?”

“You cooking or-”

“Speedy’s.” Sherlock answered with a comical little frown.

John chuckled and then stopped abruptly, turned his face into the pillow and laughed full out. When he was through his licked his lips and looked tenderly on Sherlock. “Mmmm, split a fry up?” He suggested, running a hand down his stomach.

Sherlock nodded, “Extra toast and tomatoes.” He rounded the bed and for a moment looked as if he was going to the loo but instead stopped at the edge and bent over, rummaging for a moment on the floor before coming up with John’s wallet.

“Oy!”

“I _did_ get the whole of dinner…” Sherlock drawled. 

John tossed his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Fine, _large_ coffees, then. And a bacon butty.”

“Demanding,” and Sherlock slipped on his shoes.

And John yawned again, said, “Three hundred quid,” and turned over to doze.


End file.
